Jar of Hearts: A Collection
by glass0ghost
Summary: A collection of Kingdom Hearts One-Shots. An abundance of love and fluff for the romantic soul - RoxasNamine & SoraKairi mainly. AU.
1. I Won't Give Up

**Howdy guys! So sometimes I write little one shots after being inspired by something random. I'll just post them all here in this collection for you to read and such because I hate leaving you for months on end, ahaha. :)**

**Inspiration:** _I Won't Give Up - Jason Mraz  
><em>**Pairing_: _**_Roxas + Naminé _

**Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts!**

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><p>When she was four, he'd moved in next door. The head of blonde hair would roll past her house everyday on a miniature skateboard. She'd watch him from the window, wanting but scared, eager but nervous.<p>

He was only five when he'd thrown the ball into her yard by accident. It'd nearly smashed a window, but it didn't matter. She'd smiled and handed it back to him before returning to sit alone, drawing under a tree.  
>The next day he'd found her in the same place, and again in the very same place on the next. And, mysteriously, his toys would somehow end up in her garden. And, without a care, she'd return them with that same smile.<p>

She was six when she was finally asked to play. It had made her heart soar. He'd taken her hand innocently and dragged her through his house, shouting directions and names and things with excitement. They'd played hide and seek for hours, never bored and always giggling.

He was only seven when she'd tripped on one of their 'adventures'. Her blue eyes had welled up with tears and, for the first time, he'd seen her cry. Worried and distraught, he'd barely been able to carry her home, but did it anyway. He wasn't going to leave her alone.

When she was eight, they'd attended school together. They were inseparable at home, laughing and mucking around. They jumped in puddles when it rained and ate ice cream on the curb during summer. Her large straw hat would flop over her face and he'd get ice cream all over his, but they were happy. That summer they built the tree house in his backyard and they'd spend entire days in there.

At nine, he was lonely. She'd gotten the chicken pox and he hadn't been allowed to see her. So at school he made friends with the boys, would muck around with them and get muddy. But when he'd get home, he'd slip a flower through the post in her door. She'd always find a pile of petals because the stem never fit.

She was ten when they were sorted into different classes. It didn't make a difference. He'd muck around with his friends and she would sit hers on the playground, watching him laugh and smile. In her heart she was part of the game, running alongside him. But real life wasn't as kind, nor was the existence of cooties. It was okay though. They could play soccer and make forts at home.

He was eleven when she moved away. They'd spent the day together, like usual, and he hadn't known. He couldn't believe that he hadn't known. That afternoon, he was made to stand on the curb with his mother and watch her family pack the boxes into the truck. He didn't cry; he was too much of a man to cry. Then she'd gone running. She'd disappeared before they could leave. He'd gone running after her. He found her crying in the tree house, the one place filled with their happy memories and their drawings. She'd looked at him once, her eyes filled with those tears he hated, before his sadness broke through. They sat crying there together for what felt like ages. Their parents eventually found them together, asleep, with his arms around her. They never got a proper goodbye.

For the next four years, she was lonely. Across the other side of the country, they never saw each other. She made new friends and met new people. Soon her memories of their time together began to blotch. Specific details faded. But she remembered him. Sometimes he'd pass into her mind. When he did, she'd look over her photos of them together and feel sad.

He had his photos too. He kept them in a small box under his bed, right below where his pillow was. Soon they were lost amongst the mess of his life, books and sports equipment and clothes. Occasionally she would flit through his mind. One of his female friends was blonde, like her. Her eyes didn't match the deep blue, but he felt the need to have someone like her with him.

When she was seventeen, she moved back to the suburb where she'd grown up. She attended the high school that they'd laughed about and sometimes wondered whether he remembered her. Sometimes she thought she saw him and, on those days, she'd look through the photos again. The one of him and his cheesy grin, where she was smiling beside him, face scrunched up. She'd stopped by their old houses, but they weren't there anymore. Part of it made her heart hurt.

In his last year of high school, when he was eighteen, he could've sworn that he'd seen her. That was crazy, though – she was on the other side of the country. And then, it was as if he had gone crazy, as she walked into his chemistry class with a note for the teacher. She was there for approximately eleven seconds before leaving without a word. Her blue eyes and blonde hair hadn't changed, but she was prettier than he'd remembered. That lunchtime he'd looked for her, ducking in classrooms and circling the grounds several times. In the afternoon he'd returned to their old houses, just in case. And, during the night, he didn't sleep. It was 3am when he'd roamed the house, looking for the address book. It had taken him ten minutes to find the list of surnames that matched hers. The following day it had taken him two hours to ring each and every number with no avail. But he was certain she was back. He didn't give up.

She was nineteen, in college, and working on an art project when her mobile phone had rung. She'd answered it like usual before nearly dropping it into her paint set. That very night they'd spoken until all hours of the morning, her project still lying, dry and unfinished, where she'd left it. Once again they were across the country from each other but it didn't matter. Each night they spoke. They sent each other messages whenever they had time.

At twenty he found himself working at a coffee shop, still paying his own way through college. He met people, watched them come and go. He saw women of all shapes, sizes and colours. Many were very beautiful, but he couldn't bring himself to start anything. Not when he spent the hours that he wasn't talking to her, thinking about her.

A long distance relationship could work, she thought, aged twenty one. It had been done in films and books. Instead of letters they sent emails and texts and voice messages. And, everyday, she found herself happier and happier. Then another stumbled into her life. He didn't compare, couldn't compare – they were different, both unique, both lovely. The dates came quickly and, soon, a relationship.

Twenty two, twenty three and twenty four became increasingly lonelier for him. They spoke less, too busy with their lives. He'd found a girlfriend, a pretty brunette. He would fill the call-less nights, snuggling with her instead. He didn't know which one he preferred. Whenever he was lonely or sad, however, he'd write a letter to her and not his girlfriend. He didn't know what had possessed him to do it, but it didn't matter. He stored them, unsent, in the box below his bed that was still full of the pictures from their childhood. They'd broken up shortly after and he hadn't dated again.

When she was twenty five, she was proposed to. They'd been together nearly five years and he'd thought it was time. She had too. She wrote out her invitations over a span of four months, everyone within the first few weeks, with his months later than the rest. She hadn't forgotten, however. It had pained her to write it. She missed him. She felt for him. They hadn't seen each other for years. It had taken her even longer to send the invite. Instead, she sent him a plane ticket.

On his twenty sixth birthday, a letter came to him in the mail - A plane ticket to her and a letter which promised a long talk and an explanation. He'd jumped at the chance. His heart had soared. He'd packed the collection of letters that he'd written her, securing it safely in his suitcase instead of his hand luggage, so he wouldn't have any second thoughts halfway through the flight.

She met him at the airport, four weeks after sending the letter and only two days after her twenty sixth birthday. It wasn't awkward. She spotted him from a mile away and they embraced for a few seconds only because she had to pull away, feeling guilty about her engagement. Her heart played up but she ignored it as she drove him back to her apartment. She didn't know how to break the news to him, so they hung out like old friends. She took him on tours of the city and they spent hours together during the day. During the night, her fiancée would question her, protective. She'd reassure him that everything was fine. It was raining the night that he found out. Her fiancée had told him the news after a rather complicated, tense situation. Hurt, he'd left her apartment with his suitcases in hand and didn't stop when she'd called after him. This time, she went running after him. It was a messy argument and she returned home, drenched with rain and misery.

He was twenty seven and running a small coffee shop. He was never as happy as he used to be.

At twenty eight, after nearly two years of marriage, she found a pile of letters crammed in the drawer of the desk in the guest room. After three hours, her husband found her, a teary mess with the letters clutched in her hands. When she was asleep, he'd thrown them away without her knowing.

A week before he turned twenty nine, she walked right up to the counter of the coffee shop and straight back into his life. He'd forgiven her years ago. He'd realised it. He was in love with her.

When she was thirty, she had been living in her hometown again for nearly a year with her husband. He'd been promoted and was never home. It was an unhappy marriage. It wasn't like in the movies and books that she'd read when she was younger. It wasn't like anything she'd wished for, dreamed of. Everything had crumbled since the letter incident. It was dangerous territory to even bring up. She hated it.

Thirty one and living in an apartment by himself, he'd been shocked to open the door to her, tears running down her face. They were friends at best. Her husband had cheated on her. She felt used and miserable. He'd let her take his bed in his apartment and he took the couch. He brought her breakfast in bed and sat and listened, feeling hopeless. The night she turned up on his doorstep, he'd written another letter to her. It was pages long and he'd left it in his pantry under the gingersnap biscuits. She'd never look there – he knew she hated ginger snaps.

By the time she was thirty two, she'd found her own apartment several blocks away from him. He'd offered to let her stay, but she neglected, not wanting to impose. They saw each other frequently. She'd gotten a job as an art teacher and spent her time doing what she loved. She spent her birthday alone that year until he'd shown up on her doorstep, a present in his hands. They'd watched kid's movies together, reliving their childhood, as she wore her new scarf. When he left that night, she suddenly felt lonely. She missed him. It took her a while and she didn't sleep that night but eventually she realised it. She was in love with him.

When they were thirty three, she was over his so often that if felt as though she lived there. He asked her to move in with him again. She neglected it, once more, but he gave her the key anyway. If she ever needed a place to stay, his apartment would always be open to her.

She was thirty four and bringing over groceries for him when she found it. A letter, tucked under a box of biscuits – gingersnaps, she hated them. Halfway through putting the food away, she stopped and opened the letter addressed to her. She couldn't believe it.

Thirty five and still the owner of his café, he received the shock of his life when she walked straight in and pushed her way to the front of the counter, ignoring the criticism and complaints. She'd grabbed him by the front of the shirt as she very nearly climbed onto the counter, and kissed him. He couldn't believe it.

By thirty six, they were married. It was small yet elegant. She didn't care how many people came, as long as he was there. He wouldn't have cared if she had been wearing a sack, she had always been beautiful.

Thirty seven, thirty eight and thirty nine passed without a worry. They lived together happily, a small house in the suburbs. He still owned the café and she was still and art teacher. It was as though nothing had changed. They couldn't have been happier.

Even when they were forty, he would leave her letters on the counter that she'd take the time to read each day.

Forty one and teaching, she was asked by a young girl about her husband. In reply, she pulled out her purse and pointed to the picture of the two of them as children, him with his cheesy grin and her with her scrunched face. The girl had smiled and so had she. One of the boys made a comment about cooties. It reminded her of when she was younger.

On her forty second birthday, he shoved a flower under the bathroom door before leaving for work. When she'd opened it, a bouquet sat before her. He had obviously improved on his charm.

The mural in his coffee shop was painted by her when she was forty three. He would look at it and smile every time.

He'd come home smelling like coffee even when he was forty four. It was her favourite smell.

And when she was forty five and covered in paint, he'd smile and hug her, telling her how beautiful she was.

When they were both fifty, she'd wake up every morning, earlier than normal, and leave him breakfast on the counter before leaving for work. And when he'd come home from his work every day to see her asleep on the couch after waiting for him, he'd carry her to bed despite his sore back and tuck her in.

Throughout her fifties, she was always beautiful. She was one beautiful thing that he loved most. Even as her hair began to turn grey and her skin began to crease, she was beautiful.

In his sixties he retired and sold the coffee shop. With his spare time, he'd spend it writing. She would read everything he wrote and love it. He was her favourite book, reading his emotions and his movements and loving every moment of it.

When they were seventy and she was retired, they walked hand in hand down the sidewalk whenever they could. Despite everything that may have changed on the outside, his hand still felt the same to her. And she was still beautiful to him.

He was seventy nine when he fell on some stairs. Being fragile, he broke several bones and became bedridden for months. She cooked and fed him every day. She wouldn't leave him alone for more than an hour.

She was eighty when he managed to find some time alone. As she slept, he would read and write. Most of the time, she plagued his thoughts. Despite being weak and tired, he pulled himself out of bed. It took what felt a lifetime to make it to the pantry with a letter in his hand. She found him an hour later, sitting on the floor with his back to the cupboards, unable to get up. Tears in her eyes, she phoned for help and sat beside him, clinging to his empty hands.

At eighty one, he passed away. She was distraught. The nights were lonelier and she slept on the couch for months, the bed was too cold and empty. Every morning she made another breakfast only to find it untouched on the counter when the day came to an end. Regularly she folded and refolded his clothes. She would leave the television on his favourite station, just to listen to it. And every night before bed, she would run a tender hand along the frame of their pictures, always stopping on a pair of them. One, the one from their childhood, with his cheesy grin and her scrunched up face, the other of their wedding day. It made her heart hurt and her eyes sting.

When she was eighty two, she was still as lonely as ever. Sure, she could smile again for her friends but nothing was the same inside. The day she found a box of ginger snaps in the cupboard, she spent hours crying. Not because they were his favourite but because of the letter she found attached to the box. He'd written it only months before he'd left.

It told her that he loved her. He always had loved her. And, no matter what happened, he always would.

She knew, also, that she would always love him, more than anything.

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><p><strong>Ahaha, one shots are difficult-ish.<br>I hope you liked it and such!**

**Oh and to anyone reading these, Little Lights is on its way, I promise! Radiant Blues, I guess its coming along, ahaha. **

**Stay sexy! **


	2. Wanderlust

_**_**This is just a random one-shot that has been sitting in my file for a while. I thought I might as well upload it.  
>As far as I can remember, the word prompt is ' Wanderlust', that I discovered through my regular nerdy word-of-the-day updates from .<br>In this, Roxas and Namine are in their early twenties. :)**_**_

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><p><em><strong>Wanderlust.<strong>_

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><p>There was nothing outside the window. Or, at least, nothing interesting to him. Shifting slightly, Roxas settled back into his seat.<p>

Something snapped softly. "Could I sit here?"

A girl – blonde haired, blue eyed; he noted – stood in the aisle, camera in hand, looking at him expectantly. The red ribbon tied in her hair shined delicately.

He blinked. When he'd bought his ticket, this was something he hadn't been expecting. Leaning over, he picked his bag off the seat and dropped it near his feet. "Sure."

A smile, small and pretty, lit up her face. "Thank you!" And, within moments - _snap_.

Roxas frowned and turned away as she sat lightly in the train seat, her small shoulder bag falling softly at her feet. Again, outside the window, there was nothing of interest – except perhaps the sun, shining dimly as it sank into the horizon.

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><p>He yawned, stepping out onto the platform. A few people lingered around him, many having left as quickly as possible. The lights glowed softly.<p>

By the time the train had stopped, the girl beside him – he didn't catch her name – had already left. The only sign that she wasn't just a figment of imagination was the ribbon, a deep satin red, that'd been in her hair, curled lightly on her seat.

He'd picked it up absently. If he saw her, he'd return it. If not, perhaps it'd be a lovely souvenir for his sister.

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><p>"Roxas Lock."<p>

He looked up from his phone. The Radiant Garden customs officer was unimpressed – impatient.

"Yes?"

The man flipped the small book closed, handing it back over the counter. "Stamped and ready," And, after a moment, "Have fun."

"Er," Roxas tucked the passport back into his pocket quietly. "I will." But the man had already moved, attending to the next person.

Ignored, he headed out towards the entrance. A taxi to the hotel, a box of pizza, a good night's sleep – that's all he needed. In front of him, escalators rolled- a dull mechanic hum in the quiet of the station. And then, just before him, orbs of blue, a swirl of blonde and a camera, disappearing down the stairs in front of him.

Roxas started forward, footsteps quick and precise, after her. The ribbon on his bag, he took it in his hand and pulled, twirling it between his fingers.

Despite the movement, he stepped quickly down the escalator. She wasn't far off. Hair swaying lightly - restricted by the thick camera strap around her neck – she walked towards the glass doors, towards the exit.

He jogged across the foyer, his bag clicking behind him, the ribbon in his hand driving him forward. Roxas caught her standing just outside the door, the toes of her flats touching the very edge of the road.

"Excuse me," He puffed lightly, standing beside her and studying her face as she turned to look at him.

She was strikingly pretty. Hair soft and light, eyes deep and soulful, she looked like how he'd imagine an angel from a story. The small barrette in her hair - a purple snail – looked dim in the streetlight. Recognition shone in her eyes. Without a word, she raised the camera. _Snap._

Blinking, he offered her the ribbon. "I think you left this on the train."

She smiled. "I did."

"...Here," He held it out to her as a silver car pulled up to the curb - a taxi. She took the handle and quietly opened the door. After a look at the ribbon and a silent glance back to meet his eyes, she got in the car.

"Thank you."

Confused, he tilted his head. "But you didn't take it."

"I know." _Snap._ She lowered the camera. "Find me."

The ribbon felt soft in his hand. "But-"

She smiled and shut the door. The car silently pulled away from the curb.

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><p>He didn't need this. He certainly didn't want this. But he couldn't bring himself to throw it into the wind.<p>

Leaning on the balustrade of the balcony, he could see nothing of interest below him. In one hand, the ribbon still sat. It looked alone, but not sad.

She had told him to look for her. But, Roxas didn't know if he wanted that. He'd come for a rest – for relaxation. It was going to be hard to find a girl he didn't know in a city he wasn't familiar with.

Bending, he rested his forehead on the cold metal of the railing and came to a conclusion.

If he saw her again, he'd settle this. If he didn't, tough luck.

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><p>Coffee in hand, he strolled across the square - ribbon his pocket, just in case. The first day had been completely uneventful. Books stores had been empty, coffee shops dank. Sighing, he had full intention of returning to the hotel.<p>

"Hey!"

He stopped and turned. Across the pavement, beside the fountain, someone waved at him. Roxas squinted at them, starting forward. They met him in the middle, looking somewhat flustered. If there had been any sign of excitement on his face, he would've denied it.

Blonde hair pinned back, blue eyes incredulous, she stood before him, camera in hands.

"What?" He took a sip, eyebrow raised. She was different.

"I-I...you can't just walk through someone's shot, you know."

Both eyebrows high, Roxas smiled at her, "Really."

"..." She blinked, at loss for words. "A-Ah, well... are you going to apologise?"

"Do you want your ribbon back?"

"...why?"

"Well, you did ask me to find you."

"I know I did." She looked flustered as she raised her camera. _Snap_.

And suddenly, for some reason, Roxas wanted to know more. She was a curiosity. The pictures, the open endings – it was frustrating.

Digging out his wallet, he twirled the ribbon around his finger. "Here." It shimmered as he offered it to her.

Blue eyes defiant, she ignored it. "What's your favourite food?"

It was random, but he answered anyway, "Pasta."

"Try again,"

"...Rice?"

She smiled. He got the hint, even if there hadn't been one.

"Do you want to have dinner somewhere?"

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><p>Naminé - that's who she was. He'd found it out over dinner.<p>

They'd both come from Twilight town. He'd just started his holiday, she was ending hers here.

After dinner, he'd taken her for ice cream and she'd taken several photos.

During dessert, conversation had drifted aimlessly. They spoke about nothing in particular, but he didn't mind.

She was quirky, absent minded and mysterious. But she was lovely. Despite being quiet, he had to commend her for her bravery in trusting a stranger to find her. It was as if that had all been a test up until now.

Outside the elevator – he had walked her to the hotel, just to be sure she was safe – she had smiled at him and taken another photo. This time, of them both together.

"Thank you for tonight." She'd said, like it was a date.

He didn't mind, "You're welcome."

"Let's meet again, Roxas."

"I'm fine with that."

He smiled. She returned it and stepped forwards. On her tiptoes, she'd kissed him gently on the cheek before retreating into the lift. The doors closed before he could say anything.

The ribbon still sat in his wallet. He'd give it to her next time.

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><p>He didn't see her for a few days, but it didn't mean that she'd left his mind.<p>

Absently he would think of her- her blue eyes, deep and intriguing. The way her smile seemed to say a thousand things at once. And her photos, which she hadn't let him see.

Roxas sighed, lying on the bed in his suite and staring at the ceiling. He fiddled subconsciously with the ribbon in his hands, not knowing why or how he could miss her.

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><p>On his way back to the hotel, it had started raining. Umbrella by his side as he sat in the taxi, Roxas stared out the window, through the water drops, at the lights outside. The book on his lap, folded in a plastic bag, he'd found by chance in that same empty bookstore. It was one of his favourites.<p>

Someone was ahead of him, walking hunched in the rain. He jerked abruptly.

Blonde hair drenched, camera bag huddled protectively in her arms; Naminé ignored the car as it passed.

"Stop here, please."

The cab driver looked at him like he was mad. Paying no attention to the look, he pulled a few notes from his wallet and handed it to the man. The ribbon still sat nestled in the pockets.

Collecting his things quickly, he opened the door, stepping into the rain. His umbrella was up in moments as he jogged down the sidewalk.

Before him, Naminé had stopped moving, watching him with wide eyes. Smiling, he stood beside her, protecting them both from the rain.

"...Where did you come from?" She sounded baffled, yet relieved.

"No where special," He replied, offering her the handle of the umbrella. She took it wordlessly.

Studying her face, he shrugged his jacket off, shivering at the cold. Before she could say anything, he'd draped it around her shoulders and taken the handle back. Judging by her expression, she had no words for him.

Roxas chuckled lightly, following her with the umbrella as she began walking silently.

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><p>Walking beside her was comforting. For reasons he didn't know, Roxas had been missing her.<p>

They spoke quietly, like before, the whole way - about everything and nothing at all.

When she laughed he felt himself smile. The way she spoke about photograph and art answered unspoken questions, yet created more.

It didn't matter. Halfway there he decided that all of this wasn't just chance. Maybe it was his books talking or maybe it was just him.

He liked her. That was that.

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><p>"Hey, Naminé..."<p>

They'd stopped in front of her hotel, before the entrance. She was wearing his jacket. He still had her ribbon.

"...Yes?"

He hesitated. There were so many things he wanted to do, things he wanted to say. But he couldn't. He changed his thought. "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow," She looked somewhat sad.

"Huh..."

The corner of her mouth pulled into a small smile. "We'll still see each other though, right?"

"I'd like that."

They stood together for a few moments, rain filling the silence between them.

"Hey, Roxas...?"

"Yes?"

Stepping forward, discarding everything, she softly pressed her lips to his.

Once again, he had to admire her bravery.

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><p>When he went to see her the next morning, she was gone.<p>

She'd already left for the train, according to the concierge.

He'd asked if she'd left anything – a message or something – for him. The man wordlessly handed a black pad over the counter, along with the jacket he had leant her the night before.

* * *

><p>Pictures of him filled the pages, sketches along the side. She truly was an artist.<p>

His holiday wasn't over yet. Hers was ending within a day.

It would have seemed creepy, all these photos of him filling all these pages, if not for the neat swirls of red marker adorning the last page. He didn't care what anyone could possibly think about this.

He knew what he had to do, what she wanted him to do.

He was going to be brave.

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><p>Book in hand, looking ruffled from the wind, Roxas made it to the platform as the train pulled away.<p>

His heart sank. The book felt heavy and sad in his hands as he just stood, watching as the train disappeared into the distance, along with his hope. The chance of them ever meeting again was slim, yet not final.

They lived in the same town. He'd find her eventually if she didn't find him first.

It was a long shot he was willing to take - for her.

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><p>He felt cold and miserable as he walked back into the hotel reception. The weather seemed to reflect his mood – rainy and depressing. It was stupid to be this down over something so small – a meeting so brief – but he couldn't help it.<p>

The elevator was empty, as was the hall on the way to his room. It didn't provide any comfort at all.

Roxas' heart stopped when he neared his room.

The person sitting against his door hadn't been there when he'd left an hour or so ago.

And it certainly hadn't been Naminé.

Their eyes met and he ran as she pulled herself up from the floor. Instead of embracing her or kissing her, like his heart wanted, he stopped close to her and breathed heavily – shocked, relieved and genuinely happy.

"What are you doing here?"

"Nothing special." A small smile on her lips, another, identical red ribbon in her hair, she lifted her camera. "But - found you."_ Snap_.

That was enough of an explanation for Roxas. He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms, his lips to hers.

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><p><strong>Woo! Another one-shot to add to my teeny tiny little collection.<strong>

**Ehehe, hoped you liked it! :)**


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